


The Rest of the Guys in the Band

by lesyeuxverts



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Poetry, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 05:10:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1254073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesyeuxverts/pseuds/lesyeuxverts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robbie challenges James to a poetry contest … just how many poems does his sergeant have memorized?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rest of the Guys in the Band

**Author's Note:**

> All quotes of course belong to the poets named in each section, and not to me. The title is taken from Hathaway's words in s2ep1; I've taken the liberty of including some poets from "other bands," as it were, but then I think Hathaway probably has fairly eclectic taste in poetry.

  
**Eliot**   


  
  
  
There are tests, and then there are _tests_ , and there’s only so much a man can be expected to take. It’s late, and perhaps it was a bad idea, putting a dare to his smart-alecky sergeant.  
  
Two glasses of wine ago, Robbie thought he knew what he was doing. Now – he’s not even sure what kind of wine he’s drinking.  
  
"Go on, then," he says, draining the last gulp from his glass. "Give us another."  
  
Hathaway blinks at him, and Lewis guesses that maybe he’s had one too many, too. He didn’t normally see that sort of unfocussed, blinky look on the dishy Sergeant Hathaway. Dishy – no, it was Laura called him that. Robbie wasn't supposed to say it – definitely not aloud – and he wasn't sure how James would take it, being called dishy, if it was coming from him.  
  
"I must protest," James says, refilling both of their glasses. He’s opened a second bottle of wine, and Robbie’s not sure when that happened. This was almost certainly a bad idea. Anything that makes Robbie focus on the smooth curve of James’s lips is almost certainly a bad idea.  
  
"I must protest, because it’s hardly a fair challenge. Hardly a fair challenge, and–" He pauses, as if considering. "And not a contest, considering that you’re not competing."  
  
"Eh, you know me," Robbie says. "This is about you and your great brain."  
  
"You’re not even checking to see if I’m right."  
  
Trust James to get stroppy about that. "Fine, give me your anthology of poetry or whatever, and I’ll check you for accuracy."  
  
Hathaway looks as though he's been insulted by the very mention of an anthology – and how the man can convey so much with a few quirks of his eyebrows, Robbie will never know. "Give me a poet, and I’ll give you the right book."  
  
Looking at James’s wine-stained lips – close enough to kiss – Robbie couldn’t have named a poet if he’d had the bloody anthology open in front of him. "Erm … whichever one you quoted last time."  
  
"Ah … more Eliot. Do you know what he said?"  
  
"I suspect you’re about to tell me." Seeing Hathaway this drunk seems to make Robbie more sober, at least marginally so – the room’s no longer spinning around him.  
  
" _Oxford is very pretty, but I don't like to be dead._ "  
  
"Clever man, he must’ve been."  
  
Scrolling through with drunken speed, James manages to find Robbie the correct page on his Kindle. Then he’s off, quoting with his eyes closed.  
  
" _Let us go then, you and I,  
When the evening is spread out against the sky…_"  
  
They end up slumped together by the end of the poem, James scrunched down so that his head’s resting on Robbie’s shoulder. His left side is warm where they’re pressed together. The screen’s gone blank and Robbie’s given up the pretense of checking James for accuracy.  
  
The wine does its work, and as he drifts off – both of them staying, even though it'll be hell to sleep like this, not wanting to leave – he's still leaning against James. Robbie thinks that maybe this wasn’t the worst idea after all.  
  


  
*****

  
  
  


  
**Byron**   


  
  
  
Hathaway doesn't mention the dare the next day, though they wake up curled towards each other – snail-like, two long bodies coiled on a too-short couch. Lewis wipes the sleep out of his eyes, struggles past the hangover, and makes the most of it. Time to pretend that nothing has happened, if that's what Hathaway wants to do.  
  
They drag themselves into work – no sense in taking two cars when they're going the same place – and Hathaway's just bringing in the first coffee of the day when they hear the purposeful-sounding _click, click, click, clack_ of Innocent's heels in the corridor.  
  
Hathaway leans in close and whispers in Robbie's ear, " _The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold_ …"  
  
It's definitely a quote of some sort, though Robbie doesn't recognize it. But a quote means that Hathaway's not pretending that last night didn't happen … maybe. Robbie's not sure – not sure enough to risk bringing it up himself, anyhow.  
  
But come quitting time, with the place quieting down and no active cases to push them to longer hours, James looks up at him, catches his eye, and suggests lasagna and more poetry over at his.  
  
"We could continue with George Gordon Lord Byron, if you liked, or…"  
  
"Let me guess, you've got them all memorized."  
  
He smiles, then – that soft smile that Robbie thinks, sometimes, is one that only he's ever seen on James's face. Robbie's fooling himself, maybe, but he's never seen James smile like that at anyone else, and so sometimes – sometimes, he hopes.  
  
"Not anywhere near all," he says. "Not anything close."  
  


  
*****

  
  
  


  
**Coleridge**   


  
  
  
Come Friday, facing the weekend, Robbie thinks it might not be a bad idea to try something other than poetry. His half-drunk dare has turned into a strange sort of intimacy, but he's no closer than he was before to actually touching James.  
  
That had been the wine-soaked idea he'd had in his head, at the time – Robbie's not sure it was the best way to go about it – but he's not sure now if he's got any better ideas. He's come to admit to himself, these past few years, how much he wants to touch James. To be closer to him.  
  
And, come what may, the poetry's got its uses – he's seen more unguarded looks on James's face, this past week, eyes closed and lips shaping remembered words. But Robbie's still got no idea of whether James might want –  
  
"Morning, sir," James says, walking into their office and dropping a paper bag on Robbie's desk. A paper coffee cup is set down with more care, and then he settles down with his own breakfast. "Anything on?"  
  
"Just that report for Innocent – more paperwork, I know how you love it."  
  
"How much you love it, more like, sir."  
  
At work, there's no sign of the man who recited the Sonnet to Lake Leman for Robbie last night – not that he expected there to be, but it's damned frustrating, not knowing what James is thinking.  
  
They take a quick break for lunch – eating together in the companionable silence that Robbie fancies has grown closer and more companionable over the years – and then return to the slog. "After all," Robbie says, "sooner we start back, sooner we're done … and sooner we're done, the better, as far's I can see."  
  
James pauses in the doorway, and his eyes flutter shut for a second.  
  
" _Since all, that beat about in Nature's range,  
Or veer or vanish; why should'st thou remain  
The only constant in a world of change…_"  
  
"Shakespeare?" Robbie asks, half-joking. He doesn't think it likely – James hasn't quoted Shakespeare once yet since they've been doing this.  
  
"Coleridge, sir. Not talking about paperwork, but I imagine the sentiment's the same. Benjamin Franklin said something about death and taxes, and he could've thrown paperwork in as well."  
  
"Some things never change, I suppose."  
  
"Indeed, sir." James says, and he holds Robbie's gaze for a minute.  
  


  
*****

  
  
  


  
**Blake**   


  
  
  
It's time to knock it off for the day, and Robbie's not thought of any new ideas – or any excuses to see James over the weekend. They're off the rota, and there's no reason James shouldn't have some time to himself, but Robbie thinks – hopes – maybe, if he can think of something clever, he'll convince James to give him a chance. To give them a chance.  
  
To give James a reason to think of him as something other than Lewis, old sod and boring old boss.  
  
"Pint, sir?" James says, stopping by the door.  
  
"Of course."  
  
At the pub, sitting out by the river, Robbie wonders if maybe he should stop pushing. James is pale and quiet next to him, pushing his glass from one old ring to the next – marks etched in the table, memories of the tree-that-was. Maybe it's enough to have this, quiet friendship and a mate to knock back a few pints at the pub with, come the end of the week. Definitely it would be better to have this than nothing.  
  
James looks up, then, and he's no longer quiet and brooding. It's a sudden transformation, and Robbie's not sure he can identify the look on his face. It's – something.  
  
"Pick a poet," James says.  
  
Robbie finishes the rest of his pint, uses the excuse to have a minute or two to think. He swallows, long and hard.  
  
It started as a drunken game, but maybe it means something more to James now.  
  
"Erm … William Blake."  
  
"Easy," James says. "Too easy – I bet you could do him yourself."  
  
Robbie pushes his empty glass around a bit, following the marks that James had. Lines in the wood, long memories. "Doubt it," he says.  
  
James cocks an eyebrow. " _And did those feet in ancient time…_? Or perhaps, _Tyger Tyger, burning bright_?"  
  
He goes on before Robbie can say anything. "How about this one? A little more obscure. It's called Three Things to Remember.  
  
" _A Robin Redbreast in a cage,  
Puts all Heaven in a rage.  
  
A skylark wounded on the wing  
Doth make a cherub cease to sing.  
  
He who shall hurt the little wren  
Shall never be beloved by men._"  
  
Robbie shakes his head. "Can't say I've heard that one before."  
  
He offers to get another round and stands. "This Blake fellow," he says before he goes up to the bar, "Founding member of the RSPB, was he?"  
  
James smiles and laughs a little. The strange expression's gone from his face, and it's everything a normal Friday should be – everything Fridays always have been, with the two of them, and Robbie's left still wondering.  
  


  
*****

  
  
  


  
**Whitman**   


  
  
  
"There's a poem," James says, just as they're leaving, the noise of the pub dying behind them as the door swings shut. He pauses outside the pub to light up, and the flickering flame casts short shadows around them both. He sucks in a breath and exhales, directing the smoke away from Robbie.  
  
" _I sing the body electric_ , it begins. Part of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass. Do you know it?"  
  
Robbie shakes his head.  
  
" _All is a procession;  
The universe is a procession, with measured and beautiful motion._"  
  
With that, James leaves him there. Robbie goes home to read it, and reads about men and women's bodies, and wonders what James is trying to tell him.  
  


  
*****

  
  
  


  
**Celan**   


  
  
  
After a Saturday spent thinking, it's a relief to look at his mobile and see that it's James calling. Robbie has to wonder if this is the strangest courtship in the world, two steps forward for every three back, and him half-afraid to move any which way for fear of ruining a friendship and a damned good working relationship.  
  
"Lewis," he says, hoping it's not about a case – hoping that James has called for the sake of calling him.  
  
" _In the mirror it's Sunday,  
in dream there is room for sleeping,  
our mouths speak the truth._"  
  
"Erm … what?"  
  
"Paul Celan," Hathaway says, and Robbie can hear, clear enough, that he's smiling. He smiles, too.  
  
"From a poem called Corona," he says. "Not important now. Listen, there's an antiques fair – I was wondering if you'd want to check it out with me?"  
  
And so they spend the afternoon walking amongst old things. Some of them are older than Hathaway, some of them older than Robbie – some of them reproductions or new-fangled vintage chic. Robbie watches as James brushes a hand against silk-smooth old wood, gives the lightest touch to fragile glass, holds a square of lace up to the light. He's not looking for anything in particular, he says.  
  
"Paul Celan, eh?" He stands a step too close to Hathaway and lets their hands brush together, as if by accident. One step forward.  
  
"I like him," Hathaway says, studying an old map with faded sepia tones. "He wrote some beautiful things."  
  
He looks over his shoulder at Robbie for a second, then closes his eyes.  
  
" _It is time the stone made an effort to flower,  
time unrest had a beating heart.  
It is time it were time._"  
  
Robbie watches him, the flutter of his eyelashes in the weak winter sunlight, and wonders – melodramatic, like a teenager all over again – how he ever lived without this man.  
  
They go on walking, stopping here and there to look at things.  
  
"D'you have a photographic memory?" Robbie asks at one point, trying to be casual about it.  
  
"Eidetic," Hathaway says. "Not quite photographic. I've always had a good memory for verse, though – all sorts of literature, really."  
  
"Must've come in handy, studying for exams."  
  
"Exams and … other things," he says. He only gives an enigmatic smile when Robbie looks at him.  
  
Leaves of Grass, men and women's bodies, Hathaway and his bloody joke about a Yorkie bar – and Robbie doesn't know enough to be sure of anything, knows enough to see that he shouldn't push him. He takes a step back and points out a wooden table – "same as the one we had in the kitchen, when I was growing up," he says.  
  
Three steps forward and two back, but Hathaway's called him, brought him here, chosen to spend his Sunday in Robbie's company – to spend it with beautiful, obscure quotes and inscrutable smiles, but still, it's a Sunday spent together.  
  


  
*****

  
  
  


  
**Dickinson**   


  
  
  
Robbie suggests takeaway and telly, Monday night, but instead of turning toward the telly, James is sitting perched on the arm of the couch, balancing a half-empty bottle on two fingers. "You look like an overgrown schoolboy, sitting like that," Robbie says.  
  
"I was tall for my age even when I was in school," Hathaway says.  
  
It's rare enough that Robbie gets to hear any of his past – most of it that he knows has come out in bits and pieces. He doesn't feel it's time to pry, though. Hopefully there'll be time enough for that later – world enough and time, as the poets would have it.  
  
"Want to hear a funny one?" James asks, and then recites without waiting for Robbie to answer.  
  
" _Sic transit gloria mundi  
How doth the busy bee,  
Dum vivimus vivamus,  
I stay my enemy!_"  
  
"Ah," Robbie says. "Funny?"  
  
"Emily Dickinson," James says. "It was a valentine she wrote. Plenty of Latin."  
  
Robbie clears away the take-away cartons and brings out two more bottles. He hesitates on the threshold, holding them up. "Unless you'd rather have some wine?"  
  
He can't quite get the image out of his head, of James last week, his lips dark with the red wine they'd been drinking.  
  
James nods, then gives a half-shrug. "Wine would be nice, but … whatever you'd prefer, sir."  
  
It's a Monday evening, and this is probably a bad idea. Probably a bad idea, but he'd thought that when he dared James to recite all the poetry he could remember, and look where that's got them.  
  
Robbie shakes his head, since he's not sure where it _has_ got them, but he thinks – hopes – that he likes where it's going. He opens the wine, the cork giving a soft pleasant pop as it emerges.  
  
"Cheers," he says, clinking his glass against James's.  
  


  
*****

  
  
  


  
**Shelley**   


  
  
  
It's late, and they're sitting curled on the couch, facing each other. The telly's been turned off, and the glass of wine has gone to Robbie's head. He feels punch-drunk, happy to be sitting like this with James, no matter how strange it might be for two grown men to curl up on the couch and face each other.  
  
"I've been wondering," James says, slowly, forming each word carefully as if he's not sure how it will come out of his mouth. His words break the quiet between them. "When you asked me to recite poetry…"  
  
He reaches blindly toward the coffee table, fumbles until he finds his wineglass, takes a sip without looking away from Robbie. "When you asked me to recite poetry … I was wondering if you were hoping to hear something specific?"  
  
Robbie feels almost as if he can't breathe, his heart is beating that fast. "I … only whatever you wanted to say," he says, and leaves it at that.  
  
James closes his eyes. Robbie knows now that he does it to picture the page where he first read the poem, but it still seems seductive, the slow flutter of his eyelashes and the almost-sleepy look on his face.  
  
"There was a poem," he says. "Do you remember? It was – we heard it together, one of the first cases we worked together."  
  
Robbie doesn't speak, doesn't breathe, doesn't want to break the spell. He _hopes_ –  
  
And, his words falling soft into the silence, almost as quiet as if he's not breathing either, James says,  
  
" _And the sunlight clasps the earth,  
And the moonbeams kiss the sea –  
What are all these kissings worth  
If thou kiss not me?_"  
  
James opens his eyes, and he looks so tentative, so – vulnerable, afraid of being rejected, of being wrong about this – that Robbie's reaching for him almost before the last line is done.  
  
"Yes," he breathes. " _Yes._ "  
  


  
*****

  
  
  


  
**Neruda**   


  
  
  
It's different with James than Robbie had expected – slower, sweeter, more thorough. Fingers pressed against fingertips, mouths pressed together, then opened for soft kisses.  
  
It's as though James is memorising him, and Robbie can't help but wonder if this is what he meant, when he says his memory was good for exams and … other things.  
  
He leads James towards the bedroom, stopping every step for more kisses, more touches. James seems to come gladly, willingly, but Robbie can't help but wonder if it'll be another case of three steps forward, two –  
  
"Are you sure?" he asks, mouthing kisses down the curve of James's neck.  
  
James stops him then, one hand on either side of his face. He's slouching a bit, and they're eye to eye. "I've always been sure," he says. "I didn't know if _you_ were."  
  
James reaches for Robbie, afterward – after they've soared to some place that's beyond words or poetry. He presses another kiss to Robbie's shoulder.  
  
" _Our nomadic kisses wandered all over the world:  
Armenia, dollop of disinterred honey:  
Ceylon, green dove: and the YangTse with its old  
Old patience, dividing the day from the night._"  
  
"That's pretty," Robbie says, too sleepy and sated to offer anything approaching a critical review. "Is that…"  
  
"Pablo Neruda," James says. "In translation, of course."  
  
Robbie musters enough energy to roll his eyes. "Of course. Well, for the record … you can court me with poetry any time you like."  
  
James gives him that soft smile that Robbie likes to think is only for him – maybe he'll ask if it is, one of these days. "Likewise," he says.  
  


  
*****

  
  
  


  
**Marlowe… and Shakespeare**   


  
  
  
In the morning, they wake curled together – spread out across a long bed, not crammed onto a too-small couch. James looks hesitant for a half a moment – then Robbie kisses him, and he answers with another kiss, and a pleased smile.  
  
His eyelashes flutter closed as they lie there, pressed close together. "How about this one?" he asks, his mouth against Robbie's skin.  
  
" _Come live with me and be my Love,  
And we will all the pleasures prove  
That hills and valleys, dale and field,  
And all the craggy mountains yield._"  
  
Robbie gives him a smile of his own. "I've not got your memory," he says, and there's the steady thrum of James's heartbeat under his hand, the warmth of him, all reassurance that James won't mind a simple offering, even if it's only Shakespeare and not one of his 'guys in the band.'  
  
"But … what about this one?  
  
" _Doubt thou the stars are fire. Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar. But never doubt my love._ "  
  
The way James kisses him is more than enough to convince him that the poetry contest was a marvelous idea.


End file.
